


For your love, and others' love, and the memory of love

by 6amtea



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Character Death, F/F, I made this at 2 am and cried several times, M/M, Post-Canon, Sad sad sad, Soft Spot Conlon, javid and newsbians are really really background, modern but not really au, not canon era, not modern au, race is antonio, spot is old and probably ooc, spot is sean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:40:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24386857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/6amtea/pseuds/6amtea
Summary: Spot Conlon grew up. He got married. He had kids. His kids had kids. And he never forgot about Racetrack Higgins.
Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly (background), Sarah Jacobs/Katherine Plumber Pulitzer (background), Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 10
Kudos: 38





	For your love, and others' love, and the memory of love

Lana approached her grandfather sitting quietly, smoking on the porch. She squeezed Claire’s hand softly before speaking.

“Grampa, I want you to meet someone.” She tugged her girlfriend to stand next to her. “This is Claire. My girlfriend.” Claire smiled softly at him and held out her hand for him to shake. He did.

“Claire. You treatin’ my granddaughter right?”

Claire nodded her head. “Of course. I couldn’t hurt her if I tried.” She smiled again. Lana sat down in the chair next to him.

“So, Grampa, you’re okay with this?” Lana asked nervously.

Spot laughed shortly. “Why wouldn’t I be? You know, back when I was a kid, I had a boy.” He looked out into the yard, his eyes sad.

Lana’s eyes widened.

Claire took the chair on his other side. “What was his name, Sir? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Spot waggled a finger at her. “That’s the question, isn’t it? All a’ us newsies had nicknames. Almost no one used their real names. Some of em’ never got names, couldn't remember em’. But most a’ us came from bad places. Bad homes. New names gave us a new identity.” He gave both girls a side glance before returning his gaze to the horizon.

“But to answer your question, his name was Racetrack. Racetrack Higgins. Got that from a gambling addiction down at the Sheepshead races. His real name, though, I don’t think I could share. That was the rule. If you knew someone’s name, you didn’t tell a soul, or call em’ by it ever. But for us, it was a promise. I knew his name, and he knew mine.”

_________________________________

_The window creaked in the hot summer breeze as two boys lay on the floor, relaxing in the cool relief it offered. It was late, around one, but neither was asleep. Their hands were intertwined, breaths in sync._

_“Hey,”_

_“Mhm?”_

_“...Antonio.”_

_The other turned to look at him, eyes wide._

_“My name is Antonio.” He stared at the ceiling, determined to not panic._

_There was a long pause. Then another hesitant voice._

_“Mine’s Sean.”_

_“Yeah?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_The breeze blew again, and the window creaked with it._

_“I love you, Antonio.” It was barely above a whisper._

_“I love you, Sean.”_

___________________________________

Lana leaned forward, now interested in this untold story. “What was he like?”

Spot thought for a moment. “He was loud. Those Manhattan boys were always louder than us. He always had a cigar, and an extra penny to help a little out. He made people laugh. He made them like him. Everyone liked Race. How could you not?” He smiled at Claire. “He was the kindest person in all a’ New York. Would stay out till midnight sellin’ papes to make sure no one went hungry.”

Claire smiled back softly. “He sounds really lovely.”

Spot shook his head, but had a wide grin on his face. “He was a bastard. He would a’ jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge on a 5-cent bet. Never knew when ta quit.”

Claire looked at Lana with a smirk, and Lana rolled her eyes dramatically.

“A minute ago you said he was a Manhattan boy. What did you mean?” Lana scooted her chair closer to Spot.

“He was a Manhattan newsie. I was the leader of the Brooklyn newsies. King a’ Brooklyn, they called me.” His eyes suddenly looked so much younger. They held more joy, youth. “He was the second to the Manhattan leader, Jack Kelly. Good guy.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Being a newsie? Nah. But being King a’ Brooklyn?” Spot closed his eyes. “I wouldn’t a’ traded that for anything.”

Claire and Lana looked at each other sadly. Lana looked like the story was going to make her cry.

“Did anyone know? I mean, it would have been dangerous, but you couldn’t have been the only ones.” Claire said. Spot patted her knee.

“We weren’t. Jack Kelly, the leader a’ Manhattan, was stupid in love with his pal Davey. That was real entertainin’ to watch, when they was both obviously smitten. And there was Davey’s sister, and her friend Katherine. Oh, they wasn’t subtle about that. But I assume it was easier for dames. They got away with more.”

Claire and Lana both laughed at that.

“But yeah, people knew. My second and third, some of Manhattan. Race stayed in Brooklyn half his nights anyways. We didn’t mean for anyone to know. It was an accident. But Jack Kelly was getting upset that his second seemed to have wavering loyalty to his own borough, and found out.” Spot inhaled sharply. “That was one a’ the most scariest moments of my life. But Kelly was okay. It was all okay.”

______________________________________________

_Jack Kelly ran across the Brooklyn Bridge, anger and confusion running through his body. Race was almost never at the Manhattan lodge anymore, and Jack was sick of it. What did Brooklyn have that Manhattan didn’t? Rabies? Fleas?_

_Jack pounded on the door of the Brooklyn lodge, pushing himself in when it opened. The boy’s didn’t look happy to see him, but no one made a move to strike._

_“Where’s Racer?”_

_A few boy’s pointed up the stairs. Jack bounded up them, and burst through the first door in the following hallway._

_Jack froze._

_Brooklyn had Spot Conlon, too._

_Race lay with his head in Spot’s lap, who ran his fingers through Race’s hair. Spot wore a lazy smile, and leaned against the wall, eyes half-shut. they both scrambled up, yelping as Jack's presents was noticed._

_Jack stood in the doorway, shocked._

_Spot’s look of sheer terror was quickly masked with anger. He stepped in front of a shaking Race, fists raised to fight. “Don’t touch him, Kelly.”_

_Jack felt sick, suddenly. He thought Jack would..?_

_“No, Spot, you got it all wrong-”_

_“I’m not letting you hurt him!”_

_“I’s a queer too, Conlon!”_

_The room was quiet. Spot lowered his hands. Race took a step forward._

_“Jack?”_

_“Yeah, Race.”_

_Race rushed forward and hugged Jack, tears streaming down his face. Jack embraced his brother, and watched Spot out of the corner of his eye._

_“Take care a’ him, Spot.”_

_“I will, Jacky. Trust me.”_

__________________________________________

“What happened to him, Grampa?” Lana asked.

Spot looked at his hands, which trembled slightly. He was getting old, almost 87 years old. Most newsies didn’t live as long as him. Certainly not the ones who deserved to.

“Lana, when you get ta be my age, you think about your life. You think about what ya love. And who ya love. And you think about what could’ve been. I coulda spent my entire life with Racetrack Higgins. He was supposed ta be my forever. But life has other plans sometimes. And it hurts, and it’s not fair, but it makes you think about what was, instead of what coulda been. And about the love you felt, and about the memory a’ that love.”

Claire and Lana shared a look, and a tear slipped down Claire’s face.

“Racetrack Higgins was the love of my life. I loved him, more that I can bear. So much that it hurts. It was the kind a’ love that makes you feel invincible and vulnerable at the same time. Hold each other close, girls. If it’s love, you'll know, and never let it go.”

_______________________________________

_Antonio Higgins died on a sunday. The doctor said it was scarlet fever. They had all pitched in to hire a doctor. A lot of good it did them._

_He had been on the verge of death for two weeks before finally giving in. Spot had hardly left his side._

_The funeral was the largest gathering Spot had ever been to. It was on a nice, sunny day. Typical Race, making a pleasant day all about him. Almost every newsie in New York showed up. Jack spoke about how Race was his best friend. Everyone cried. Everyone except Spot._

_Spot didn’t think he could cry. But he was wrong. He cried the rest of the night, when he returned to Brooklyn. He threw his few belongings across the room, and punched the walls. His face stung from the tears. No one saw him for the next few days. And Spot didn’t know where he was for the next few days._

_Race died on a sunday. Spot didn’t know if he would survive any sundays after that. But he did, because that’s what you do when you love someone. You live for them. You hold them in your heart, even if they weren’t meant to live for you. You look back on your life, and you think about not what could have been, but what was. And who you loved. And you live for their love, and your own love._

_____________________________________

Spot Conlon died on a thursday. He died of heart failure, in his sleep. Peacefully.

His funeral was small. He was buried in a small cemetery in Brooklyn, near a makeshift wooden headstone that's engraved name had worn away, though any newsie from New York could tell you who it belonged to.

At his funeral, his granddaughter Lana spoke of love, and how when you look back on your life, you’re supposed to remember the love you felt for your people. And how Sean Conlon lived his life, for the people he loved, and for himself.

Sean Conlon was completely and utterly in love with Antonio Higgins. It was a fact of life, like the sky being blue and the sun setting and rising. From that fateful sunday forward, he lived his life for love. For Antonio's love, and his own love. Because that’s what you do. You live for your love and others’ love, and the memory of love.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I cried several times while writing this and I hope it made you feel things. I had this idea rolling around in my empty bowling ball of a head for a few weeks and wrote it in one sitting. it's now 2:30 am and I need to get up tomorrow. I am so sorry for the sadness ad hope this doesn't seem to pretentious because I am not sure I know what love is.


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